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It’s that time again! Time to break out the candles and whipped cream. This year, the Imbolc season coincides with the Super Bowl, so if you’re football inclined, you can cover your special person in wax the same color as your favorite team’s jerseys and then keep score by scratching the score into the cooled wax, like human cuneiform.

But all that aside, let’s talk about nuns. While Imbolc has several different goddesses associated with it, the most common that you will find if you’ve been doing your Google searches is the goddess Brigid (or Brigit, Briget, Bride, blah, blah, blah). Brigid is one of a handful of goddesses that transitioned in many parts of the world from Pagan to Christian in the form of a saint. Although the Catholic Church is loathed to admit it, St. Brigid of Ireland is probably a clever populace’s successful attempt to continue to venerate a favorite goddess within the context of Christianity.

However, Brigid the goddess and Brigid the nun are not so very different. Granted, Brigid the nun has had her great and vast powers curbed somewhat and has to work within a patriarchal framework, but She still provides succor and healing to those who need it, She still controlled the forges, hearths, and sacred wells. She still lead a group of women in holy devotion that served Her and carried out Her wants and wishes. And She was smart and clever when it came to dealing with know-it-all men (look up the story of how Brigid got the land for her monastery).

As Pagans, there are many important lessons that we can learn from nuns. ”Unconditional” is one of the biggest lessons. They have given themselves unconditionally to the chosen deity. They unconditionally do what they feel God and Jesus wants them to do. They serve unconditionally without any expectations. ”Submission” is the other big lesson. They have found joy in submitting. Their submission has given them a freedom and the resources to do in the world what they feel called to do. I’ve heard many Pagans lament the fact that there are not any to very few places for Pagans to go and cloister themselves and submit fully to the Gods and Goddesses. Perhaps somebody should do something about that.

There are several cool things that we will be adding to the Barbed Pentacle this year, plus a really sexy contest. The first thing that we will be adding is a blog roll. We’ve seen them on other sites, and those blog rolls are horribly flawed. First of all, they always look like somebody just vomited up a long list of blog names on the side of a blog. Second of all, they never tell you what the blog is about. You just have to judge on the name. Let’s face it, a lot of really interesting blogs do not have interesting names–or, even worse, their names are really misleading.

To combat this, our blog roll will actually be useful. It will appear as a separate page in the top bar, it will include a blurb about the blog and a logo or icon. So, if you’d like your blog to appear in the blog roll, please use the form below to tell use the name of the blog, the URL (web address), and a sentence or two about the blog. Or, if you’d prefer, you can email all of that plus a logo (optional) to chirp_sparrow@yahoo.com

PS. The blog does not have to be about sex nor Paganism. Any blog is welcome!

The next wave of the orgasm of opportunity is a directory of festivals for 2014. Festival time is upon, and nobody wants to be stuck at home.

To be included, please use the form below or email me at chirp_sparrow@yahoo.com the following information: Name of festival, group sponsoring/promoting the festival, location, date(s), ages welcome, logo (optional), website for more information, and a sentence or two describing the festival. While we like Pagan and sexy festivals best, any festival will be included.

And now for the super sexy contest! Many festivals have um, certain areas set aside for adults to engage in fun and private activities. If your festival has a sex shack, we want to know all about it!!!! Send us photos of the area (but not participants) and a description. All entries are due by October 20, 2014. Mistress Marmot will judge the entries for: 1) sexiness 2) versatility 3) cool factor 4) ease of use 5) decorations 6) sexual protection. The winner will be announced on October 31, 2014. First place winners will win a year’s worth of advertising on The Barbed Pentacle for your festival and group and possibly swag for your group or festival staff. Second place winners will win 6 months’ worth of advertising, and third place winners will win 3 months’ worth of advertising. All entries should be emailed to chirp_sparrow@yahoo.com no later than 11:59 PM Eastern Standard Time on October 20, 2014. Good luck!

According to Google, today is Zora Neale Hurston’s birthday, an early popular documentarian of hoodoo, voodoo, and other folk magics. If you have never read any of Hurston’s delicious stories or anthropological texts, then start Googling. When I first started down my Pagan path, I didn’t have access to all these fancy Pagan how-to manuals written by fluffy folks who live in an Azure Green world. But I did have access to Zora Neale Hurston’s books at the public library. The first book of hers that I read was Tell My Horse, about anthropological adventures in Haiti tracking down Voodoo practitioners.

As things progressed, I found my way to Their Eyes Were Watching God, which is a wonderful unintentional version of the Descent of the Goddess imbued with sex, magic, and word tapestries. I haven’t looked at cantaloupes the same way since (put that in your pipe and smoke it!).

Almost all of her books, even her novels, are liberally littered with bits of magic that can easily be incorporated into your current practice. Look at it like trying a new spice blend on your hamburgers. if you’re not up for making your own brews, Quadrivium Supplies (http://www.quadrivium-supplies.com/) has several oils listed that are mentioned in Hurston’s books, specifically ‘Red Fast Luck’ oil.

“The way we tell it, hoodoo started way back there before everything. Six days of magic spells and mighty words and the world with its elements above and below was made.” –Zora Neale Hurston

Happy Yule! Yule is a special time of romance, drinking, sacrifice, and violence. This year to celebrate, we want to give to you a special, sexy Yule meditation–a seasonal romance.

You can read it as is by yourself, you and a partner can whisper it to each other as pillow talk before mid-winter love making, or you can step it up a notch and add a textual element with the use of evergreens. Holly leaves can be used like a Wartenberg wheel; pine, fir, rosemary and other evergreen boughs can be used as a fragrant love nest; smaller boughs can be used as invigorating switches (the scent of many evergreens are used in aromatherapy for invigorating sluggish souls) or sensual ticklers; ivy vines can be used make sure your lover doesn’t run off in the middle of your winter revels. As with anything sex and BDSM related: make sure everything is consensual, everyone is legal, safety is top priority, and outdoor sex occurs on private land that you have permission to use.

It was approaching Mid-Winter. A time of great frivolity and expectation. A time when the ancient winter crone tries to sneak up on the waiting spring maiden. A time of bittersweet sacrifice.

A cold crispness filled the air, like biting into an apple from the icebox. She waited outside, growing impatient as she grew cold, waiting for entrance to the large castle. To wait outside like a common visitor, she thought to herself, and in the snow no less! Her retinue of ladies, whom she fondly called her ‘tendrils’, waited behind her. More patient than their mistress, they smiled sweetly thinking of the vigorous festivities that waited inside. Finally, she completely lost her poise and patience and started pounding her delicate fist on the sturdy oaken door.

“I am the Ivy Queen! You can’t keep me in the yard like a stranger! There’s snow on the ground and it’s freezing! I’m freezing! Open up! Open upppp!” She screamed in all her fury, her nearly exposed bosom heaving in her tight, rabbit fur trimmed bodice. She pounded until her hand was bruised. ”Let me in!!!!!!!! I demand an audience with the king!” She could hear a deep, mirthful laughter resonate from the heart of the castle, as if the castle itself was laughing at her predicament.

“And who have you come to see, lady?” The laughing voice asked from an upper window.

“I’ve come to see the Holly King! I’m expected! You know that! Stop asking and let me in!” The Ivy Queen screamed. Her hand would have ached if it wasn’t numb. Her teeth were starting to chatter. She pulled her green velvet mantle around tight, trying to still her shivering. She knew that most of the shivers were from the cold, but a certain amount of it was anticipation and nervousness. Would there come a day when he wouldn’t admit her at all? When her body finally was no longer attractive to him? When he just didn’t return? That was always a possibility, she felt. Then she would be left forever with his twin, the stern Oak King, who was not nearly as much fun.

The deep laugh boomed again. ”No! Not yet! Not ’til you learn some respect!” The Holly King shut the casement, but stayed close to the window to see the resulting fury. The Ivy Queen screeched in rage, yelling obscenities and threats. Toying with her turned him on in ways that her vine like fingers crawling over his body in foreplay never could. He loved seeing her creamy skin flush in anger, contrasting against her green clothing that she was so fond of. Today she was in a heavy green velvet, covered in embroidered ivy vines. Although she never aged or changed, he never grew tired of seeing her, being with her, holding her tight. She embodied everything that mankind hoped for in a woman. She was the ‘Every Woman’. She was Queen.

The Holly King looked down again. She was literally fallen now, utterly broken. She was a green heap against the snow. He opened the casement and could hear her soft crying. Her Tendrils looked embarrassed for their mistress as they waited behind her, all in light green with their hands in white fur muffs. He could feel the crotch of his trousers tighten. He had had each of the ladies during his season, but now it was time to be with his queen again, the last hours of passion and love before she became his brother’s queen.

The great door opened on its own, and the Ivy Queen looked up, not sure that it had finally done so. Every year it was the same for the first and last meeting. She always said that the Holly King was the nicer of the two twins, but he did have his mean streak. He enjoyed reducing her to tears before he built her back up to being queen. But his method of building was lots of fun. She got up stiffly and shook off the snow. The Holly King smiled watching her trembling shivering movements that shook the bounteous blessings of her breasts.

Once inside, the Ivy Queen moved quickly through the castle to her love. Although this was an endless drama that continuously played out, she always felt a great sense of urgency, as if that if she didn’t take advantage of every moment with the Holly King, she would regret it forever. She arrived at his door, panting slightly for breath. A sudden blush flooded her face as she thought about the things he would do to her. She blushed a little more deeply thinking about what she would do to him, how she would slid her mouth down…

“Do you prefer the hallway to my rooms?” The king teased.

She looked at him, and the warmth beneath her gown that had been building all day accelerated. ”No, I’d much prefer your rooms.” That was all it took. The King grabbed her up and spun her around, kissing her deeply. As they kissed, the Holly King felt as though his heart was being encased in vines, binding him to her forever. ”Oh, I’m so hot.” the Ivy Queen said, as they pulled apart.

“Well, let’s get you out of some of those clothes.” The king replied with a broad grin. Broad was the key word with the Holly King. Broad smile, broad shoulders, broad appetites. Built like a tank, he was a brawler, where as his wiry, lithe brother enjoyed quick jabs. He removed her fur muff that matched the Tendrils’ and her heavy dark green cloak. The king reached into her low cut bodice and pulled out a handful of breast. ”Your girls don’t have girls like these,” he whispered as started to softly squeeze and suckle her ivory globe. She bent her head forward in a protective gesture, their crowns meeting and caressing each other as her vine fingers twined in his hair. The king liberated the other breast but turned his head to the side so that his holly crown pricked the skin.

“So we’re going to play that game, are we?” The Ivy Queen coyly inquired, fully knowing the answer. They always played ‘Tickles and Prickles.’ It was one of her favorite boudoir activities. The Holly King loved to play long games of seduction, full of rich food and sweet, intoxicating beverages. The Oak King was all business. All procreation, hard work, plain food, and plain water.

“Of course we are, my love. And if you try to scoot away, I’ll tie you with ivy vines.” He laughed as he pushed her large tits together and blew into them like a motorboat. The Ivy Queen giggled. That was a tickle. The King untied her tight bodice that her breasts were now hanging out of, and slipped it off, along with her gown. Her clothing was starting to litter the floor.

“Wine?” The king asked, fully drinking in the sight of his darling standing before him in nothing but a thin green silk shift. The Ivy Queen had slipped her breasts back beneath the silk so that her nipples now pressed tauntingly against the fabric. She nodded as he handed her his goblet. That’s how it was with him. They shared. He shared with everyone, despite his large appetite. Enough was never enough but there was always plenty. His twin was miserly with everything. The only thing that he shared halfway willingly was his bed, and even then he preferred that the Ivy Queen bring her own blanket.

Outside the darkness was starting to gather as the sun set. It was always iffy if the sun would rise the next morning. The Ivy Queen knew that somewhere the Ancient Mother Goddess was pacing and squatting somewhere in the throes of labor. The couple moved to the window to watch the bonfires being lit. The king stood close behind his queen so that she could feel his growing need against her back. He wrapped his thick arms around her and held her tight as she sipped. He blew lightly on her neck exposed by her ivy snood. She shivered. Then he took a holly leaf and very lightly rolled it across her neck. She shimmied against his hard-on, making him very happy.

“More wine?” The King asked, drinking the last from the goblet and refilling it. While his back was turned, The Ivy Queen slipped off the last of her clothing so that she now stood there in all her glory. She stood there full figured with nothing on but her crown of ivy with leaves and tendrils hanging down over her vine snood. She bit her lip in anticipation of his reaction. When he saw her, he grinned with a wolfish delight.

“I’m going to eat every creamy ounce of you!” he declared and made a playful lunge at her. She squealed and danced out of his reach. Here and there she dodged him, her curves bouncing to the King’s delight. During the Oak King’s reign, she always slimmed down on his meager rations, but her figure always blossomed under the Holly King’s largess. Finally, she found herself cornered on the bed. ”Do you concede, lady?” he asked, his cheeks ruddy from the chase.

“Mmmmmm, uh, no!” she squealed and started pelting him with pillows.

“Then I’ll have to tickle and prickle you into submission!” he roared as he pounced on her, holding her down with his brawny arms. He lowered his head once again to her naked breasts and lolled his head back and forth, letting the leaves of his crown prick her flawless skin. The sensation was almost electric for the Queen, and it unlocked the passion between her legs. She could feel herself growing moist in anticipation. He moved slowly down her torso, rolling the leaves over her rib cage and soft stomach. Her sighs turned to moans as he prickled her thighs, which could be very properly called ‘gams’, and gently across her mons. He let the leaves comb through the silken locks, tickling and prickling at the same time. He pushed his crown back on his head and started softly tickling her delicate skin with his beard, urging her to open up to let him in.

“I don’t think I should be the only one naked,” the queen said in response to the king’s ministrations.

“Hmmm, then you should undress me.” The queen took a deep quaff of wine, and proceeded to undress her king. She unlaced the front of his shirt and slipped it over his broad shoulders and head, being careful to leave his crown in place. Then she turned her attention to his boots, which were a little more difficult to remove. Finally, she was at his pants, more precisely between his pants covered thighs. Through the fabric she started kissing and nuzzling her king, driving him into a slight frenzy. With her teeth, the Ivy Queen pulled loose the button on his fly, releasing his manhood. She kissed its tip and looked up at her man.

“I want you on the bed.”

“And who are you to tell me what to do, Queen? Didn’t we settle this dominance issue outside in the snow when you first arrived?” The King tried to sound stern like his brother, but it was hard for him to suppress his mirth.

“Do as I say or I’ll tie YOU up with ivy!” the Queen retorted, smiling. Her hand was still sore and a little swollen from pounding on the door earlier.

The Holly King acquiesced and leaned back. His consort straddled him backwards, settling her ample hips and buttocks onto his broad chest. He couldn’t resist giving her creamy cheeks a pinch.

“Hey! Not fair!” The Ivy Queen protested. Her king just laughed.

She placed her ivy crown over his growing erection in an imitation of a decorated maypole waiting for dancers. She loosened her locks and tendrils from her vine snood and flipped her hair over onto the king’s body. He had the prickles, but she had the tickles. More slowly than a snail, the Ivy Queen pulled her hair along his skin, gently scooting her ass back towards his face with every wiggle. The sensation of her hair was both soothing and sexually exciting for the king. Soon her vagina was right where she wanted it, with in licking distance of the king’s tongue. She was going to hold him to the promise of devouring every luscious ounce of her. She lifted her hips and lowered herself on to his parted lips. His tongue started lapping as she stretched her body to reach the wide expanse between the king’s mouth and cock. She flicked her tongue up and down his penis in quick, teasing moves, bringing him to full erection before sliding him into her ruby lipped mouth.

They worked as a matched pair, always in perfect timed rhythm. They both went slowly at first, the Holly King entertaining the queen with long deep strokes of his tongue into her wanting wetness. She moaned continuously over him as she slowly moved her mouth up and down his cock, like a child savoring a lollipop. The more she moaned, the bigger the king grew and the deeper he dove to savor her earthy goodness that was tinged with a slight bitter aftertaste. The Holly King never faulted the love the that he shared with his brother for her bitterness; for after all, her life was nothing but a bittersweet romance set on a continuous loop.

He felt his companion’s thighs tighten and tense around his ears, and he knew she was close. He pinched one of her cherubic thighs to get her attention. She knew what that meant. It was no longer fun and games, but time to enjoy each other one last time. With a loud pop she let his penis slip from the suction of her lips. She inched forward on hands and knees over his chest, swinging her luscious hips as she went. Those hips would be lean and almost gaunt by the time this king returned–if he returned. She pushed that fear away as she turned to face him, their eyes locked together as she slid her gushing wetness onto him for their ancient dance.

While their oral ministrations had become rather vigorous, the couple chose a slow minuet to start off their coital finale. The Ivy Queen once again flipped her hair forward, letting it swish across the king’s broad chest. She could feel what she thought was the tickle of her ivy crown on her mossy mons Venus, but when she pressed down harder to bring her lover more fully into her depths, she gasped.

“That’s very cruel!” she hissed as she stilled moved her body in their tango. ”That’s not fair! How did you switch your crown for mine?”

“The nature of sacrifice is cruel and unfair, my love. But you anointing my crown makes it all worthwhile and meaningful.”

Their tango became a painful flash dance as both moved more quickly toward their last orgasm. They screamed in wild abandon, clawing and clinging to each other as the realization that things may not go as they always have gone loomed between them. With a growl, the Holly King came so hard that the Ivy Queen felt a violent jolt in her loins. As she slowly lifted herself off of him, blood dotted her skin from the crown, like red holly berries. The King leaned up and licked some of the blood berries from her skin. ”A holly doesn’t bloom and bear fruit if it’s not pollinated.” He whispered.

For the rest of the evening the couple snuggled in furs, dining on paper thin slices of raw stag and roasted whole wrens on skewers. They both drank deeply from the wine goblet, joking and laughing about devouring the Horned God, debating whether he tasted better raw or roasted. Inevitable though, the knock was heard on the Holly King’s door, announcing that the midnight hour was drawing near. Abruptly the revelry ceased, and the lovers prepared for their fates.

“All hail the Oak King! Our victor!” The marshal announced to the stunned onlookers. Even though all in attendance knew the expected outcome, when the Holly King’s blood is spilled upon the snow they are always shocked into silence. For a moment, there was nothing, but then a wild roar of applause and cheers erupted, shattering the winter evening like an icicle.

The Ivy Queen looked torn between her two kings: the one covered in blood on the frozen ground, already turning to a mystical ash that was being blown away by the North wind, the other standing triumphant with his sword aloft, covered in his twin’s gore. The triumphant king came to her then, and took her hand.

“It appears that you’ve been living high on the hog, my lady.”

She barely nodded.

“Well, that’ll change soon. We’ll get you back on a schedule. By the way, who killed Cock Robin?”

She smiled. Things would be different and less jolly, but fine nonetheless. ”The Sparrow did, my king.” He bowed then, formally kissing her hand. Different she thought, but the same.

Happy Saint Lucy’s Day! If you’re blind, literally or figuratively, she’s the lady to see. She brings light into a dark room.

The St. Lucy story, as told by The Barbed Pentacle:

So one day there was this girl, Lucy, who lived over in the Roman Empire. She didn’t really fit in. Kind of did her own thing. Had more money than sense, some might say. All would say that she just wasn’t quite right. Her neighbors felt like it would only be a matter of time before she OD’d or ended up in jail.

Like a lot of teenage girls, she liked candles and trying out New Age religions. She tried Yoga for awhile but ended up going with a movement started by this Jesus guy. Nobody really liked his followers; the government was pretty sure they were a cult and would often plan Waco attacks on them Roman style. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! took on a whole new meaning, Dorothy, when the Romans got a hold of a Christian. So, of course since it was cool and dangerous, Lucy started following the teachings of Jesus. Lucy decided that she liked Jesus so much that she would marry him, even though he was dead. People shook their heads. There was nothing wrong with marrying a god. People did it all the time in Rome. But they thought if you were going to deny yourself physical fucking, that a sacrifice of that nature should at least be for somebody cool, not some Jew on a cross.

Lucy’s momma wanted to do something about Lucy’s behavior, but she wasn’t sure what to do since she was a single mom who was sick all the time. She was afraid that Lucy would get caught being a Jesus whore one day and end up getting eaten out by a lion. So, her mom decided to marry her off to a wealthy Pagan. She was pretty sure that would tame Lucy.

Like most creepy teenage girls, Lucy started to hear voices and have dreams. It was probably just her hormones or some bad beer, but Lucy thought that in one of her dreams Saint Agatha appeared to her. Lucy should have learned from Agatha’s actions. Agatha got involved with the wrong crowd like Lucy and got killed by the Romans and spent her days popping into people’s dreams trying to convince them to visit her shrine and to exit through the gift shop. It wasn’t hard to convince Lucy to visit the shrine. Agatha told Lucy exactly what she wanted to hear, what any teenage girl would want to hear: “If you come and visit with your momma, she’ll be healed so you’ll have more free time and you’ll get to be as famous a me!” Agatha was famous for telling her fiance to fuck off. Unfortunately for her, her fiance was a Roman officer, so he cut off her tities and had her locked up. If he couldn’t have them, no one could.

Lucy’s mom finally did take her to the shrine and, just as Agatha had predicted, her mom was cured. Lucy and Agatha became BFFs and Promise Ring sisters. Lucy’s mom was very impressed, so when Lucy said, “Hey, Agatha told me to give away my starter money to the poor.” her mom went right along. What kind of fucked up mom follows the advice of a ghost who’s in your kid’s head? Well, as you can imagine, things did not go well. Mr. Handsome Pagan found out that Lucy and her mom were giving away Lucy’s starter money that he was suppose to get when they got married, and just like a little pussy, he ran off to tell the big bad leader of the neighborhood.

Perhaps the boy friend should have taken a cue from Ricky instead of being a tattletale. It would have ended better for Lucy.

In the mean time, Lucy’s fanaticism accelerated. Lucy’s fanaticism pushed her so far that one day a man told Lucy, “Hey lady, you got pretty eyes.” Lucy went a little Van Gogh and plucked them out for the guy. She said, “Here, if you like them so much, take them. Now you can see them all the time.”

That poor guy freaked the fuck out and proclaimed, “Beware! That bitch is crazy!” To reward her crazy, um, faithfulness, her god gave her some lizard blood and she regenerated her eye balls. Her new eye balls were even more beautiful than the originals. But word got out in Syracuse, the first one not the second, about the eye incident, and everybody pretended not to look at her pretty eyes.

Finally, Lucy’s fiance had his day in court with Head Roman Guy. Head Roman Guy summoned Lucy to court. When she arrived, HRG ordered her to burn a sacrifice to the Emperor. It was a test: was Lucy going to be a proud Pagan or a cautious Christian? According to the HRG, she failed the test. According to Agatha, the best ghost BFF ever, Lucy passed with flying colors. Lucy refused to burn a sacrifice. So, HRG decreed that Lucy be taken to a whore house to live and work for the rest of her life.

When the guards came to take Lucy to the whorehouse, she played reverse “Light as a feather/stiff as a board” and the guards were unable to move her. They tried every which way that they could, but they could not get Lucy to budge. All her Christian buddies threw up their hands and exclaimed, “Praise God! It’s a miracle!.” Then HRG ordered Lucy to be burned at the stake. The guards tried and tried to light the wood, but it was mysteriously wet. All of Lucy’s Christian buddies threw up their hands and exclaimed, “Praise God! It’s a miracle!” Some say that it was during this time that the Romans cut Lucy’s eyes out as a torture, but we like the story of crazy Lucy plucking them out herself. After not being able to burn Lucy, HRG screamed, “Well, damn bitch! I’m about tired of trying to kill you and hearing your buddies hollering ‘Praise God! It’s a miracle!’ So, if you don’t wanna suck cock in the whore house, you can suck on this!” And with that, HRG stabbed Lucy in throat. And Lucy died. So, the moral to this story is: Keep your eyes, be far-sighted, and don’t make the same mistakes that crazy Lucy did.

Supposedly Lucy wears a crown of candles because when she was running around getting into trouble she would go into the catacombs with her arms full of bread and such for the Christians hiding there. Because her arms were full and it was dark, she wore candles on her head to light the way. Wonder how she got the wax out of her hair?

Since tomorrow is Black Friday, the traditional start of the mayhem of the gluttony of capitalism, we here at the Barbed Pentacle thought that we should join right in. Presenting the Barbed Pentacle 2013 Yule Gift Giving Guide–everything you need to buy for all the unappreciative people in your life. So, without further ado……..

Play Pretties

Mystic Artisans The creative duo of Don and Toni were the winners of the “Just Smack Me!” spoon decorating contest. http://barbedpentacle.com/2012/12/spoon-contest-winner/ All of Mystic Artisan’s items are one of a kind, moderately priced, and absolutely fucking mind-blowing. They do custom work and sell already made items. Looking for a keepsake or ritual item that will become an heirloom? Talk to Tonie and Don! https://www.facebook.com/mysticartisans Look for an anniversary interview with the pair soon.

Sacred Vessel Pottery

Sacred Vessel Pottery creates utilitarian and decorative pieces for the home and ritual. According to their Facebook page, “Our Wares are Created to Enhance the Spiritual Practices of All Paths & Religions.”

No Hide Floggers No Hide Floggers are vegan-inspired floggers created from decorative duct tape. Made by a Wiccan High Priestess, these pieces are suitable for both play and ritual. No Hide Floggers is a current sponsor. Look for an interview with the proprietor soon. For selection and ordering information: http://jinglepets-nohide.blogspot.com Custom orders are also accepted.

Heather Morris “Italian Vocabulary from My Little Black Book” This volume, from Barbed Pentacle fan Heather Morris, was created from her years of notes on Italian that she encountered in her magical work. This book is perfect for anyone who has been mired down in Italian during their Stregan magical work or who wants to travel to Italia.

Looking for just the right gift for the discerning friend, or just looking for a unique way to pamper yourself? Then consider shopping at the Barbed Pentacle Cafe Press Store or commissioning a private piece for your own enjoyment. Barbed Pentacle apparel can be found at http://www.cafepress.com/thebarbedpentacle

If the Countess of Salisbury had a garter made of green snake skin, then I want one made out of Copperhead skin!

I’ve always been fascinated with garters and stockings. They frame certain portions of the female anatomy in ways that pantyhose can’t.

Besides, unless it’s crotchless pantyhose, garters and stockings are the way to go for easy access.

Originally, garters were a necessity. Woolen hose tended to slouch, which is never a comfortable situation. Early garters were nothing more than a piece of string tied above or below the knee, over the hose, by both men and women.

As humans became more ingenious, they added buckles, latches, and eventually elastic. Most garters were strictly utilitarian. However, as women’s hems began to ascend up their legs, garters became fancier and were meant to be seen in brief glances.

Eventually, garters gave way to garter belts, which tend to be more comfortable, work better, and are less damaging to a person’s circulation.

Garters, while fashionable and sexy, have also traditionally been associated with witch craft. The most famous of these associations is the story of the Countess of Salisbury, who just like Janet, had a wardrobe malfunction at a very public event. It was speculated by Margret Murray, the anthropologist who has given false credence to most of Wicca’s most valued traditions, that the Countess was a Witch Queen whose badge of office slipped down her leg. This, of course, is only an unfounded theory.

Gerald Gardner tied this onto his growing collection of witchcraft culture, and the practice of using a garter as a sign or badge of a witch’s degree or position became popular for a time. (Click here to read some more about Pagans and garters: http://afwcraft.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-witches-garter.html)

The practice of wearing a garter to denote your station has fallen out of practice within the general Wiccan and Pagan community. It’s a shame. I have wonderful visions of everyone having garters full of badges, like some Spiral Scout program gone horribly wrong. Or of Pagans passing each other in the grocery store and furtively flashing a garter shot a la Christians drawing dirt fish. Wouldn’t that be fun? Plus, it would give you a handy place to stash extra libations or an athame for ritual!

In seriousness, though, committing to wearing garters denotes a person being bound to their path, their learning, and their position of service. It’s hard to forget your duties to Deity and your fellow circle mates when you have something tight around your legs.

There’s nothing more natural, cheap, and easy than a garter made of ivy–for fidelity.

Imbolc is also a snowy holiday in many areas. An easy and absolutely divine recipe that’s fun to fix at this time of year is snow cream.

According to brief internet research, snow cream–in some form or another– is a fairly ancient and widespread dish in snowy countries. There are accounts of pioneers making it, as well as colonists and folks in the “old country”. Like most simple recipes, there’s a million variations on how to make it and everybody feels that their recipe is best. My recipe is no different.

Ingredients: A large bowl of “light” snow (if you live in a snowy area, then you know the difference) collected from a car hood, a patio table, or some other “clean surface”

1 can of sweetened condensed milk (if you open up the can and the substance is watery, then you didn’t read the can properly and you bought evaporated milk). Sweetened condensed milk cuts out the tedious task of making a simple syrup and waiting for it to cool.

Vanilla extract or other flavoring

In a bowl, add a large amount of snow and a generous portion of sweetened condensed milk, stirring gently, until the contents take on the appearance and taste of homemade ice cream. Then stir in a small portion (like a 1/4 to 1/2 a teaspoon) of flavoring. Serve immediately!

This can be made at home or in ritual for cakes and ale. It’s also a great treat to have when you’re snowed in and there’s not much else to do except make sweet love down by the fire.

Keep an eye on that sweetened condensed milk as it trickles thickly out of the can and see what it reminds you of!

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The Perchta Power Project–Exploring Pagan Domestic Discipline

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